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PERSONAL SUPPORT 800.553.0052 . http:www.StructureHouse.com here was Silkowitz, sweating, panting, su- perfluous, what was he doing here, the fool "Your wife said to give you this." Sil- kowitz handed Matt a folded paper. He recognized it as a sheet from the little spiral pad Frances always carried in her pocketbook. It was her word-collector. " N I d ' h . " ot now. on t want t IS now. The fool! "She insisted," Silkowitz said, and slid away. He looked afraid; for the first time he looked respectful. Matt felt his own force; his howl was already in his throat. What was Frances up to? Transgression, invasion! H d " ." " . b '"'' 1 e rea : metamerIsm, orI 1, g yp- tic," "enatic"-all in Frances's compact, orderly fountain-pen print. But an inch below, in rapid pencil: "Be advised I saw h . u' h " zm. rles ere. She had chosen her seat hersel in the next-to-Iast row, an aerie from which to spot the reviewers and eavesdrop on the murmurs, the sighs, the whispers. She meant to spy, to search out who was and wasn't there. Aha: then Lionel was there. He was in the audience. He had turned up after all-out of rivalry: Out of jealousy. Because of the buzz. To get the lay of Silkowitz's land. An old direc- tor looking in on a young one: age, fear, displacement. They were saying Lionel was past it; they were saying little Teddy Silkowitz, working on a shoestring out of a dinky cell over a sex shop, was cutting-edge. So Lionel was out there, Lionel who made Matt audition, who humiliated him, who stuck him with the geezer role, a bit part in the last scene of a half-baked London import. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us fir their sport. Unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare,firkä animal as thou art. Lear on the heath-now let Lionel learn what a geezer role could be, and Matt in it! Lionel wasn't out there. He would not come for Silkowitz; he would not come for Matt. Matt understood this. It was someone else Frances had seen. He made his second-act entrance. The set was abstract, filled with those cloth-wrapped wooden free forms that signified the city: Silkowitz had brought the heath to upper Broadway. But no one laughed, no one coughed. It was Lear all the same, daughter-betrayed, in a storm, half mad, sported with by the gods, a poor, bare, forked animal, home- less, shoeless, crying in the gutters of a city street on a snowy night. The fake snow drifted down. Matt's throat let out its unholy howl; it spewed out old for- gotten exiles, old lost cities, Constan- tinople, Alexandria, kingdoms aban- doned, refugees ragged arid driven, distant ash heaps, daughters unborn, Frances's wasted eggs and empty uterus, the wild, roaring cannon of a human heartbeat. A noise in the audience. Confusion; another noise. Matt moved downstage, blinded, and tried to peer through the lights. A black silhouette was thudding up the middle aisle, shrieking. Three stairs led upward to the apron; up thud- ded the silhouette. It was Eli Miller in a threadbare cape, waving a walking stick. "This is not the way! This is not the way!" Eli Miller yelled, and slammed his stick down again and again on the floor of the stage. "Liars, thieves, corruption! In the mother tongue, with sincerity, not from such a charlatan like this!" He thudded toward Matt; his breath was close. It smelled of farina. Matt saw the one blue eye, the one dead eye. "Jacob Adler, he could show you! Not like this! Take Eli Miller's word for it, this is not the way! You weren't there, you didn't see, you didn't hear!" With his old butcher's arm he raised his stick. "Peo- ple," he called, "listen to Eli Miller, they're lead ng you by the nose here, it's charla- tanism! Pollution! Nobody remembers! Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter, she wasn't born yet, mediocre! Eli Miller is telling you, this is not the way!" Back he came to Matt. "You, you call yourself an actor? You with the rotten voice? Jacob Adler, this was a thunder, a rotten voice is not a thunder! Maurice Schwartz, the Yiddish Art Theatre, right around the corner it used to be, there they did everything beautiful, Gordin, even Herzl once, Hirschbein, Leivick, Ibsen, Molière. Lear! And whoever was there, whoever saw Jacob Adler's Lear, what they saw was not of this earth!" In a tide of laughter the audience stood up and clapped-a volcano of applause. The laughter surged. Silkowitz ran up on the stage and hauled the old man of his cape dithering behind him, his stick in the air, crying Lear, Lear. Matt was still loitering there in his bare feet, watching the wavering cape and the bobbing stick when the curtain fell and hid him in the dark. Many in the audience, Frances in- formed him later, laughed until they wept. .